"She's been lying to herself for so long she doent recognize the fact she has created her own form of make-believe, what we adults like to call insanity. Do you think she even remembers where the lie leaves off and reality begins?". Marissa shook her head. Duddy leaned over and placed his head on her shoulder. "Don't worry Mar, everythings going to be fine. Let her live in the dream for awhile, we all do it once in awhile." Duddy started humming an old familiar tune. Marissa began to smile again. "Oh how I love that song, Duds!" She gave him a big hug. He started to get fresh, wanting her. "HOld on Duds, there's a time and place for everything..." Marissa giggled as Duddy kissed the nape of her neck. "Ohhh that tickles!"
Duddy drove his red car past the driveway of one of Marissa's old friends. She thought "I wonder if they'd remember me now, or if that is where they live anymore". Marissa pouted. Duddy noticed the sad inflection in Marissa's voice and tried to cheer her up. "Don't worry Marissa, you'll always have Duddy even if I'm dead and gone". Marissa quickly turned her head and her eyes open wide "And just what do you mean by that?" Duddy smirked; "Whether or not you like it or not, you've got me for eternity. I'm never letting go babe, not ever." Marissa chimed in; "Not even if I wanted to separate from you? What then? Duddy slyly quipped "Face it babe, it's never going to happen. The crazy glue you used on me; you know there's no solvent made by man to undue that glue. I'm stuck on you babe!" Marissa rolled her baby blue Spanish eyes; "Oh Duddy, you're so funny! I mean really FUNNY! Duddy returned; "Like funny-loco?" Marissa nodded; "Like funny-real loco!". Duddy extolled "Ahhhhh....". Marissa sank back into the leather seat of the ferrari and stuck her feet outside of the comvertible. "Ahhhh...that's better babe...things were getting a little too hot for awhile!" Duddy looked over from his driving; "Well you are a hot tomale Marissa, this has to be expected!". Marissa squinted her eyes as she hit Duddy on the shoulder "Ouch! Partner abuse!" Marissa retorted "You baby!" Duddy started to let out a cry like a baby "Waaaaaa.."
Marissa laughed hysterically, and grabbed her Timmy's double double and said "What's up with this coffee? It tastes like crap lately" Duddy said "You should never drink coffee after noon, it tastes like cigars then" Marissa said "You wouldnt happen to have a Cuban cigar around here, we are headed to the border, they'll think we're smugglers" Duddy said "Aren't we?" Marissa said "Certainly not. Not in the conventional sense of the word. One cigar can hardly be thought of as smuggler's booty!" Duddy replied, "No I guess not" Duddy grabbed the stoogie sitting in the ashtray and flicked in out of the window. Marissa looked stern. "Duddy!" Duddy smiled a wide cheshire grin as they pulled up to the border. "You jerk, that was my last cigar. Although I hate cigars they do remind me so much of my grandpa!" Duddy looked sheepish and said a petulant "Sorry". Marrisa appeared self-absorbed "Look busy, here comes the border patrol! Shhhhh!".
where i log i b
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Jasper Temples
"Don't ever talk to her again." The low basso monotone spake the order with unequivicable power. The very public and humilitating shunning of the young woman was now complete. Her head would be shaved, she'd be marched around the square, people would spate upon her, mocking most bitterly her existence which would be forever damned by man. Her fate forever sealed by and for eternity. A damnation man-made for those excluded men and mainly women who were simply called the Peripherals. The Peripherals were the pariah, the cause of all disease, famine, destruction, according to those priviledged few in the power seats.
Jasper certainly was unaware of this as were most innocents of the time the function and ultimately the entire process of power wielders who held captive the world of the Peripherald. Jasper had some notion of the final outcome. In fact some of her closest friends had been systematically rebuked in such odd fashion for no reason. Most just "let it go" or "forgot about it" by now because they were afraid to speak out or suffer the same fate, or worse?
Jasper was afraid to delve further into this matter of malalignment with the power sway. She recalls the last public berating and it was too unpleasant to even recall. It made her take two hits that day just to find the comfort in her old world which she had thought rock hard and solid.
She could make excuses. She felt although how horrid the berating sessions in the public square downtown, these people were, after all, just poor unfortunate souls who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jasper convinced herself; "they must have done something horribly wrong to receive such irrevocable punishment, luckily this will never happen to me". Intuitively Jasper knew this was not the truth, yet she let her lie persist. At the lie nearly killed her.
Power came from this unknown sect of Thought Prevention Officers. Peter Folk was closing in on the details of their operations however. These cruel cataysts of bloody change were not new, their kind was well-known, their atrocities and activities well documented. As this grouped had resurfaced from years ago, their slimy sins recorded for posterity years ago. For Peter Folk not enough was done to completely stop this resurgent vermin. Posterity and hindsight not being an active form of determent unfortunately.
Those undetected TPO ccould slip right through the many means made for just such a resurgence. It was Peter Folk, the commander of The Denizens of the Defiant; a renegade group of iconoclasts and considered renegades. People could go to them and freely speak their mind. This was becoming more and more infrequent as people feared their former right to free speech.
Now the splintered DOD group were mostly represented on plastered posters on the walls of the university. Simple intellectuals who met weekly at the Elephant and Castle. Peter Folk had the feared the worst; the TPO group was gaining more and more of a power-base in the suburbs. These ugly power-wielders were in his sights however. Peter had a plan to topple their newly attained and deadly hold on the collected throats of the newly Outed. Peter uncovered many new secrets with his group and with other allied groups help, he had single-handedly stopped the TPO from their complete hammer-down on the doomed society.
For the TPOwith their top secret clubs, meetings which would seal the fate of the numbered, were one step ahead of the .
by all accounts, worse than the Spanish Inquistionists or the of the usurper dressed in full regalia for the coming millenial order.
As Jasper was not fully conscious of the newly stamped seal on her fate coming down from some supreme decree from the day of her disaster. That once shining day which she had almost held onto, the grasp of which became slippery lately. It was not long ago that the golden key was held in her tiny and pale hand; her entry into the world of the priviledged secured, her future guaranteed in perpetuity.
Certainly Jasper had high hopes of becoming, one day, one of the Substantialists. Her alliances with her life partner was a sure thing in her mind. Jasper was convinced she was guaranteed many returns of the day now and every day and forever ever after. Her blatant naivity was as plain as the diamond-studded promise ring in her nose. Jasper had made, in her mind, a fine alliance with Jadish and that was her calling card, an entry into the world of the Priviledged.
In Jasper's world yesterday,
All had loved Jasper the Younger. Something had changed lately. She had what was much more than "je ne sais quo", she had "I don't know, that little something; orginality" Lizzy would often say to her closest friends that recently had come out of the cloistered.
"It must be love, the way I feel today" Jasper's wide smile continued its ever widening arc as she spun on her tiptoes defying gravity. Like an ephemeral ballerina, completing a full pirouette, she was flying. But unlike a swirling dirvish she became more and more light-headed with each turn. Soon she was spinning wildly, the guilded world of hers spinning in too much of a good thing. This world of hers all of a sudden made it impossible to stand anymore as the centrifical force flung her onto her luckily safely onto her luxuriously thick canopied bed. Her face facing the berber carpeting, letting go of the cheese quiche she had for lunch at the Boehme with Jadish.
Jasper laid prostrate after her girlish spinning around and around ten times or more for luck in front of her cheval mirror. "Nothing will be better than this feeling of heaven; love is so wonderful!"
Jasper did love her many finely appointed liasons and secret dalliances with her long term paramour. Their love, though forbidden by the Love was a treasure, a love, with little cubbies to explore in the world that catered to her every whim, every desire satiated and complete.
it was
Jasper could see in her mind's eye the very lofty rafter where the order was issued in the cloaked that sealed the young lassie's fate. A fait complete. A fate worse than death. Paulo and Lizzie knew what it would mean to their careers if they did not follow the Sublime Orders. Professionally they would suffer as much as Jasper
Jasper certainly was unaware of this as were most innocents of the time the function and ultimately the entire process of power wielders who held captive the world of the Peripherald. Jasper had some notion of the final outcome. In fact some of her closest friends had been systematically rebuked in such odd fashion for no reason. Most just "let it go" or "forgot about it" by now because they were afraid to speak out or suffer the same fate, or worse?
Jasper was afraid to delve further into this matter of malalignment with the power sway. She recalls the last public berating and it was too unpleasant to even recall. It made her take two hits that day just to find the comfort in her old world which she had thought rock hard and solid.
She could make excuses. She felt although how horrid the berating sessions in the public square downtown, these people were, after all, just poor unfortunate souls who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jasper convinced herself; "they must have done something horribly wrong to receive such irrevocable punishment, luckily this will never happen to me". Intuitively Jasper knew this was not the truth, yet she let her lie persist. At the lie nearly killed her.
Power came from this unknown sect of Thought Prevention Officers. Peter Folk was closing in on the details of their operations however. These cruel cataysts of bloody change were not new, their kind was well-known, their atrocities and activities well documented. As this grouped had resurfaced from years ago, their slimy sins recorded for posterity years ago. For Peter Folk not enough was done to completely stop this resurgent vermin. Posterity and hindsight not being an active form of determent unfortunately.
Those undetected TPO ccould slip right through the many means made for just such a resurgence. It was Peter Folk, the commander of The Denizens of the Defiant; a renegade group of iconoclasts and considered renegades. People could go to them and freely speak their mind. This was becoming more and more infrequent as people feared their former right to free speech.
Now the splintered DOD group were mostly represented on plastered posters on the walls of the university. Simple intellectuals who met weekly at the Elephant and Castle. Peter Folk had the feared the worst; the TPO group was gaining more and more of a power-base in the suburbs. These ugly power-wielders were in his sights however. Peter had a plan to topple their newly attained and deadly hold on the collected throats of the newly Outed. Peter uncovered many new secrets with his group and with other allied groups help, he had single-handedly stopped the TPO from their complete hammer-down on the doomed society.
For the TPOwith their top secret clubs, meetings which would seal the fate of the numbered, were one step ahead of the .
by all accounts, worse than the Spanish Inquistionists or the of the usurper dressed in full regalia for the coming millenial order.
As Jasper was not fully conscious of the newly stamped seal on her fate coming down from some supreme decree from the day of her disaster. That once shining day which she had almost held onto, the grasp of which became slippery lately. It was not long ago that the golden key was held in her tiny and pale hand; her entry into the world of the priviledged secured, her future guaranteed in perpetuity.
Certainly Jasper had high hopes of becoming, one day, one of the Substantialists. Her alliances with her life partner was a sure thing in her mind. Jasper was convinced she was guaranteed many returns of the day now and every day and forever ever after. Her blatant naivity was as plain as the diamond-studded promise ring in her nose. Jasper had made, in her mind, a fine alliance with Jadish and that was her calling card, an entry into the world of the Priviledged.
In Jasper's world yesterday,
All had loved Jasper the Younger. Something had changed lately. She had what was much more than "je ne sais quo", she had "I don't know, that little something; orginality" Lizzy would often say to her closest friends that recently had come out of the cloistered.
"It must be love, the way I feel today" Jasper's wide smile continued its ever widening arc as she spun on her tiptoes defying gravity. Like an ephemeral ballerina, completing a full pirouette, she was flying. But unlike a swirling dirvish she became more and more light-headed with each turn. Soon she was spinning wildly, the guilded world of hers spinning in too much of a good thing. This world of hers all of a sudden made it impossible to stand anymore as the centrifical force flung her onto her luckily safely onto her luxuriously thick canopied bed. Her face facing the berber carpeting, letting go of the cheese quiche she had for lunch at the Boehme with Jadish.
Jasper laid prostrate after her girlish spinning around and around ten times or more for luck in front of her cheval mirror. "Nothing will be better than this feeling of heaven; love is so wonderful!"
Jasper did love her many finely appointed liasons and secret dalliances with her long term paramour. Their love, though forbidden by the Love was a treasure, a love, with little cubbies to explore in the world that catered to her every whim, every desire satiated and complete.
it was
Jasper could see in her mind's eye the very lofty rafter where the order was issued in the cloaked that sealed the young lassie's fate. A fait complete. A fate worse than death. Paulo and Lizzie knew what it would mean to their careers if they did not follow the Sublime Orders. Professionally they would suffer as much as Jasper
Friday, February 19, 2010
I'm I Just: A Test Pattern
There could be this
There could be that
There may be this and that
If only that were this
and visa versa
I'd figure out the question
of inside out and topsy-turvy
backward speech
and whirly gigs that go
counterclockwise on the bias
not to say I am biased about
upside down
but really
even clowns get to fall down
after awhile
and stay put
their masks melt
their insides come out
spilling their guts along
with a few after circus beers
they spill and yarn the true tail
of their life in the skids
as a little kid
they were mucked up
and you know all the glitter
in the world
cant stop a tear from falling
well maybe it can for a moment
and then the curtain peek
and the wizard too has zits
and life isnt just soft
and doughy
but rough and toughy
and clowns cry when smiles
melt
and faces melt
when plastic only has a
boiling point of less than but more than
-378 degrees Celcius
So what's the baloney?
with the milk and cookies
and all life's secrets
and test patterns on hold
aren't just a decoy
when
in the Milky Way
now
comes crashing down
like some sad clown
under the Big Top
life
a rip off
too many Dang-blang Lies!
jj 19 022 2010
" The truth may lie beneath or it may just lie"
There could be that
There may be this and that
If only that were this
and visa versa
I'd figure out the question
of inside out and topsy-turvy
backward speech
and whirly gigs that go
counterclockwise on the bias
not to say I am biased about
upside down
but really
even clowns get to fall down
after awhile
and stay put
their masks melt
their insides come out
spilling their guts along
with a few after circus beers
they spill and yarn the true tail
of their life in the skids
as a little kid
they were mucked up
and you know all the glitter
in the world
cant stop a tear from falling
well maybe it can for a moment
and then the curtain peek
and the wizard too has zits
and life isnt just soft
and doughy
but rough and toughy
and clowns cry when smiles
melt
and faces melt
when plastic only has a
boiling point of less than but more than
-378 degrees Celcius
So what's the baloney?
with the milk and cookies
and all life's secrets
and test patterns on hold
aren't just a decoy
when
in the Milky Way
now
comes crashing down
like some sad clown
under the Big Top
life
a rip off
too many Dang-blang Lies!
jj 19 022 2010
" The truth may lie beneath or it may just lie"
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Magpie #2 Hotel Forum: Brats in Slava
Dear Hotel Manager and Staff of the Hotel Bratslava:
It has come to my attention that the Hotel Brats in Slava are really burning my tailfeathers. Often I have gone to this fine establishment in the past and have had a wonderful experience, but this time, on my last journey, I have been noticed the brats milling around the entrance to this fine four star flagship of a hotel; the Hilton or the Grand Hotels its only rival.
When will will this fine yet somewhat extravagant venue realize riff-raff is just not good for business? Having all those Avril Lavigne clones spitting on the guests as they arrive gives the Americans a less than idealized vacation full of fun and relaxation. How long until the punksters find fun in finding walls to tear down, glasnost to be revisited and the meaning behind Gorbachev's odd map on his forehead?
Last year's visit to The Bratslava was well-intentioned. Not a brat to found anywhere! Suddenly, and without fanfare or trumpet, the Brats of the Bratslava Hotel show up out of the blue. It was if they were waiting for my party of fun-loving Americans, hoping to cash in on the scene, which although a borrowed art form was really the fault to the British Pop scene in the early 1980's.
I made a hasty retreat to my room, did not visit the daily early morning sweims, nor did I enjoy the pleasures, like the sauna and spa found in these four star chateaus de excellence.
Will leavingabruptly with my wife out the back door of the Hotel my wife noticed something rather profound. An effigy of me and my wife hanging from a large willow tree. Of course I was shocked, but not any more shocked than the evidence I found under the marvelous willow. A half-burned match with a note inside which read: "Hope you loved Bratslava; please come again!"
My wife and I looked at each other and both said in an amazing synchronistic fashion; "Oh the Bratslavians are so thoughtful, we definitely will be back next year!"
It Is Getting Better All The Time
The Darkhorse, The Hollowmen or rather the Light-filled Invisiblemen were everywhere. They were everywhere Jasper wanted to be, and that meant in the confines of her newly appointed marbled-topped kitchen with stainless steel appliances and extra wide and deep sink. The cupboards were "to die for" as Jasper would often declare. The cupboards were brilliant, sparkingly bright, beyond anything Jasper had ever seen before, or possibly ever would have the priviledge of seeing.
Jasper felt special when she looked at her kitchen. Like a queen addressing her subjects; "The crystal dishes must be washed by hand", they were too delicate for her Majestic dishwasher.
The French Provencial chandelier with crystal rainbows appearing on the most everyday objects, enlivening the objects with the possibility of transformational abilities.
Jasper felt special when she looked at her kitchen. Like a queen addressing her subjects; "The crystal dishes must be washed by hand", they were too delicate for her Majestic dishwasher.
The French Provencial chandelier with crystal rainbows appearing on the most everyday objects, enlivening the objects with the possibility of transformational abilities.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Interwoven
"And the poor shall inherit the earth" Sybil read from her battle-worn WWII Bible. It was not what she wanted to hear. "Lord, please give me the strength, another sign, another word which will direct my paths, I cannot go any further".
The mother of three had felt all the burdens of life on her shoulders, along with the many chips and resultant add-ons that made the impossible possible but very difficult to remove. Once removed there was always the problem of discarding the left-over baggage, not so easy. "These chinks in my soul's armour are definitely put there by life's gleaning process." A metalurgical lecture; Sibyl's daily diatribe and litany of profanity would soon follow. NOt sure if she were Charlie Manson psychotic or Rob Schneider funny with a mild case of Tourette's. Nonetheless Sibyl had the feeling that she were rotten like wrought iron rotting slowly turning to ashes in the furnace of perdition. Made and tested by the fires; The Abendago Fiery Furnace Company from Jackson, MS from the Old Testament. One must egress past the long ago ages; way past expiry date for high efficiency furnaces, past all that is past. "The past shall be washed away" or "all is past" or "all is water under the bridge". Why must the past, if it is past, come back to haunt Sibyl? What hold has the past if one can not shake the try and get the snake to awaken and slither off to parts where we are not any longer under the snake's thumb. Do snakes have thumbs? No, yet snakes hold us down, keep us prisoner for far too long, past any reasonible expiry date.
And it is in passing that we pass the buck to the next sucker born every minute. P.T. Barnum certainly had this correct, albeit another heartless and cruel joke to add to the collection. "Half-full, half-empty? Half-full, half-empty? What is it, come on?" Sibyl sounded indigent.
Sibyl had sculpted rather crudely her own initial test by fire; her once bronze goddess appearance now unkempt was still iconically mimeographed in her indelible memory banks.
The metal did not test her soul as much as whe would like, unable to penetrate that sterling vessel of the unatainable and always well-kept chastity. The one thing that would remain vestile in the vestibule, never to be touched, as if the room were sealed, locked away in the credenza, the crypt-keeper's hidden key, or Winchester's Stairway To Heaven by Led Zepplin. Like John Bellone's staff crying; "No more Stairway To Heaven".
For Sibyl the erosion process was subtle and complete. The awareness of defeat by age was analogous to the heart-wrenching eroding process. Like a steady drip-drip of an endless leak of a aging fawcet from 1940 Sibyl was in obvious need of repair. Her pipes were rusty, her water tasted bitter and stung the tongue like poison. As she watched herself erode in this way she would hope nd pray that the limestone shelves which surrounded her environs would be the healing balm. Yet underneath the mantle of layered rock, akindling fire, a volcano of molten lava ready to fireball into plasmatic licks of passion, ready to blow her world assunder and into kingdom come. Halleluia! Sibly would have liked her one and only king of her youth at her side. This was impossible now so a substitute must be found.
Of course at her side the affiable and eternal Jesus. He would certainly be the only one to take on such an esteemed role now. The groom of Sibyl. If the nunnery could not come to Sibly than Sibyl would go to the nunnery of her mind. Like old country folk who don black attire for eternity when husband's expiry date is over-due, than certainly Sibyl could outpreform the devotion of keeping a lid tightly on her emotional heart.
No man could possibly come close or dare to tread where no man would go again. And to her expectations of perfection; impossible. No one could, in all human possibility take upon that role, that mantle of sad fate. Sibyl was convinced all men were dogs. There would not be any further takers. Sibyl was destined to remain manless for the rest of her life.
Without a firm foundation, without building upon the rock there was nothing to build upon, no mantle, no castle, no king, no knight in shining armour to love her forever. Nothing standing in the wings wait to rescue her and give her a dozen roses or a box of chocolates to placate her.
There was no magic carpet ride, no smooth-flow follow through for the declined at point of sale woman. For Sybil it was all over, all down the rocky hill and dale, a crash course on crashing into the rocks of all ages on the way out of here. "And don't forget to close the door" This chapter has ended" Sibyl laughingly gyled herself childishly.
Now suddenly she gave way, to the erosion process, watching the crumbling effect on her life. It was not a pleasant at all to experience the slow-motion viewing, like watching an accident in progress. This personal and painful decay of the aging process no one discussed. After all youth being idolatorized, age meant something to ignore, it could not possibly bring to the table anything positive, unless one had a craving for all things aged like aged cheese, wine and what ever else ages well. Sibly certainly was not aging as gracefully as the cheese in her fridge.
Aging to Sibyl was synonymous with death, only aging took longer and was yet another torture test for her determined to be a saint not a sinner and if possible a martyr if the God Lord commands. This suited Sibyl and sat well with her primed in religion mind, open to the possibilties that the impossible was in fact possible and faith being unseen could be felt, much more than romantic love could be sustained.
What life had been to the dear woman was nothing short of unkind. A cruel joke of a life, always showing the worst possible case scenario, raw edged, wounded knee at Little Big Horn red.
Of course she could only compare not contrast herself with the many fine talents of her perfect sisters. This caused her to become "vain and bitter" from seething jealously. Like the Desirada poem, Sibyl could philosphize on her condition and her unfair life. The universe was quoting a verse she had never heard in completeness. Desirada told her life is "as perrenial as the grass" and "everywhere life is full of heroism".
She could not recall the poet of the one poem she clung to against the mast which she was strapped. The one poem she wanted to quote "if you love something, set it free, if it is to be, it will come back to you". Like Jonathan Livingstone Seagull waiting in the wings, skybound, love never returned to her one day. It never came back like the cat that always did come back to eat and take and use her. And like her errant Superball from childhood, the projectile kept going and going, leaving her earthen-bound and much alone. Sibyl was always waiting in the desert of never.
Ultimately, Sibyl felt she was wholly defeated by life. Yet the very thing that held all this conglomerate mess of a life together was gone. Her man, her mantra, the interwoven fabric of two lives joined as one flesh had disintegrated into thin air.
Gone the way of the crazy fox, or the do-do bird, the crazy glue she had cemented her life upon was becoming unglued, and created Sibyl to be much unsettled. Even when she tried to make a go of things, things would invariably unravel, left gapping and raw, things soon festered and got out of control once more.
Her life had been a wild ride until then; indeed Sibyl had certainly come undone so long ago, so many eons past. Her ancient history; irrelevant. "No mind" thought Sibly her answer to her gnawing angst of repressed and unresolved unrequitted love, noisy at times, like a rumbling stomach crying for the next meal or a volcano hungry for release from it's molten prison.
Nothing but the curse of the cold grave awaited Sibyl's understanding of existence. Her flesh was rot, so why keep up appearances? She did not want a man, did not really need friends, although she had many and they were always trying to help her, failing miserably in the process.
Sibyl for your salvation you "need a man". Sibyl laughed. "The only time I need a man is when I think I am not better than they are. Women are always taught that men are better than they are. It is ingrained in the "weaker sex". Women libbers even try to look like men, because secretly they worship them. Females are not as appreciated, and this is a fact. How am I to ever get around bold-faced facts?" Sibyl was wise beyond her years. She had the game pegged.
Therew would never be signs of redemption for Sibyl, no glorious resurrection from the cursed flesh, no promise of a brighter tomorrow in neverland paradise with her man. It was formally over for Sibyl; her hope and life extinguished by imaginary firefighters during the final throes of flesh battling death. She should only hope to find on her calendar, the one stud she could forever align with since she never be bed, or wed and made a bride. "A bride of Frankenstein? Forget it" Sibyl convinced herself.
Sibyl felt that by life's sheer weight she had conquered her heart by squashing it's hopes and dreams to bits and smithereens. She had smelt burnt toast before; a culling smell for Sibyl, a reminder of what's to come. As the smell wafted in the air, like toast she became; a burnt ember of never-ever dreams of stoked-on-kent firefighters quelling the latent fires of desire.
Beyond any formalized form of recognition Sibyl was a self- sacrifice to the gods of disaster, the hunky and hot, sweaty and strong men of her dreams. A form life she had in spades, and a form that had once taken form, and like a dream, dissolved like the sugar in water. The sickeningly sweet smells like yesterday's left overs these dreams never realized. Trying to keep water forever in the hand, the dream of forever held for more than a moment evaporates.
These dreams Like unformed fetuses, rejected by the maker, never the capstone the builder rejected to live again in some other form, a hopelessness of loss. Sibyl could only hope she would someday, somehow redeem her once recognizable stone-faced self.
So now she drank. Not only to stay alive another moment in time, a brief time left over from the beginning of someone else's universe. Her drink of choice? The waters of lourdes. Sibly was dying.
As she had once had a man, once understood the meaning of life and the promise of things to come.
"It must be somewhere; the word, Lord!". Sibyl pleaded with her maker, endless her searching. Valently she raised up her Bible to the heavens today for she searched for the very words of inspiration to evoke the change she wanted to become. The image of her conjuring she had sealed in her corpus collusum, hidden from the world of "you can't do that". She was certain this would lead her to renewal. To emerge in this new cystallis form, the human butterfly, her soul unbound by destiny's stripes.
What Sibyl did not know was that her rebirth would be painful. A pain much worse than childbirth, or from the curses placed upon the woman from time immemorial.
Sibyl's change would happen from the inside-out; not outside-in as she saw fit and which proof was awaiting on the many jars of renewal creme on her vanity in the bathroom.
Early mornings could be cruel. The mirror awaiting self-reprimands.
How cruel the evil mirror since awakening from those sweet dreams where all was alway sweetness and light. Those many pleasant dreams Siby would replay endlessly as if her subconscious mind was trying by the skin of its teeth to overcome rather than submit to the ravages of time and life.
Sibyl would often escape early to bed, not that she needed to go to bed at 8 pm, but she found relief in deep sleep, the REMs were the only kindness life's strangeness had offered her.
And far away from the weightiness of her existence she laid anchor. In her life, and by all accounting methods, Sybil always felt she fell far short of the glory of the almighty whatever. She downed herself as if drowning was the best form of suicide.
"Glory be! When I am going to have my life turn around, to see any sign of life. Everything around me is either sinking, decaying, stinking or rotting. Is there more death than life? Why must I only experience the doom and gloom god? Where is the humanity? Where are the fragrant flowers of promise; of eternal youth elixir hidden in some rich castle the key fob just beyond reach; yet so close? Can life never be nearer to the perfected state of homeostasis? Can my convection oven world ever match the score for "but a moment" in time? Where's my ability to make a spec of difference? Only with the spirit can I achieve, by myself never? Never? Must everything change for the worse? What possible glory can there be in the damned? So irrevocable the contract and so inevitable the dust upon my feet, my feats me nothing? Lord, help me!"
The prays Sibyl had been asking this morning were not new. Everyday seemed to remove the special light further and further away from her world, as she became in need of bottle-bottomed glasses so thick like her brain was becoming, crusted like barnacles, the scales not peeling back anytime soon. So with this new light from the new dawm morning in the far-off distant horizon. As those unseen ghosts of the past haunt her moment to moment, she wants to make contact. Yet the ghosts only haunt, never beckon her to imbide in forbidden hidden and hiding "come find me" love. There would never be a beacon of hope on that distant shore, that far horizon to call her back home to her man.
Nothing seemed to be quite right or real to Sibyl. As now could be made into nothing as easily as now could be made into something. So nothing seemed to ever match her brutal and exacting expectations of life. Sibyl did not mesh, cut from rejected clothe, scorned by the scars on her skin.
It was as if life were a grand joke, a cruel mockery, a teasing poke at her very entity, her own precious thoughts, her own special feelings.
Sibyl; always a passionately driven woman who own desires for a better world propelled her into an endless vacuum of the unaccomplished start-ups. Businesses that seemed a sure thing, but always became grounded with lack of cash-flow. Certainly it was not merely cash that stopped Sibyl in her tracks; it was her self-defeating attiude of which no veneer could cover the completely naked truth of her existence. Rubbing her nose in the mire, the huge mess before her, the stench which reminder her of an ugly old wicked wench, a witch she had become to be not by design but by unconscious choice.
And so with this sad tell-tale heart, Sibly would subconsciously emerge from her bed each morning, never stopping to pause and reflect, to reconnect to her work-a-day world from the layers of joys from unmitigated dreams where there were no thoughts only pure feelings of the "wonder of it all". And Sibly was starting to wander off at mid-day. Talking to her cats who were now outside and nowhere near. Her sons gone to war, where? It made no difference. She was slowly loosing her mind and grip on the reality of her dreams, the only hope she had left. The only arsonal she could call upon should she need to appease the gods of retribution once again.
She had not the time for self-reflection. Besides, what would be so wonderful to reflect upon? Years of doom, lack-luster doll-drums? It did not matter anymore. No matter how hard Sibyl had try to evoke the winds of positive change, nothing was working now in her mid-fifties, as if a buffer of defeat had been like a blown up balloon surrounding her, a defence-shield from some unknown enemy, stealthily lurking somewheres.
It was as if the start menu had everything unsidedown and inside out, dusty, distorted, contorted in odd ways, without design or destiny, without control or meaning. For Sibyl, her life was blowing in the wind, the bitter wind of regret.
Indeed, the start menu would not engage, not ignite the yesterday home-fires. The powers that be would not allow the turn over, the sweet sound of revying one's own engine, and hearing the low-basso hum of swiss clockwork. The finest sound of man's accomplishment; power beyond the mortal flesh, the androgonous androidal fixation of men. The idol of man's hands making metal flesh robots from churning mind matter. Which seems so ephemeral anyway as if all life existed for the sake of the engine. The dearsweet woman-girl being shelved for the focus was not on the emotions but on the world of the unemotional world of pure logic.
She would never be now; she would be forever in memory just a mocking-bird of what she had wanted to become; an existence now surely could only be one of self-doubt and recrimination. She had no fall back guy. She had gone all the way and back and could not find her ground, her place in the sun. She had lost the sun in fact.
As Sibyl had become more unsure of her footing, of her hold on "all the world and all that is in it" and now beyond the sound barrier to space, she felt lost in its vacancy. She was not alone. Women were dumped by the lock, stock and barrel, as they no longer could give the one gift they were so good at bestowing to men; the gift of feeling. All empathy aside, Sibyl still felt there was a huge gap between herself and her colleague women libbers who donned lumberjack shirts and army boots and took on the look of life rather than the look of love.
There was no longer the drive to try to change the bitter pill Sybil must unwillingly swallow each day to keep alive for another hour by her clock."Tick tock, damn!" Sibyl murmured under her breath. "I just hate the droning of the clock's infernal tick-tock, tick-tock!" Why remind me of what I never was, never could be, never can be now? Why mock me daily by the hour and minute, and now by the mocking atomic clock's presence, by the millisecond to the root of ten thousand? I'll always be this way, learn to live with it, change may come and go but I am as constant and as persistent as that 'tick tock mock' damn it!".
Sibly could feel the sweat pool under her arms and between her chest as another flush took command of her body. A host of ladies of perpetual reminders the remains of the day to come? Only in the rarest of incidences could Sibyl recall the old feelings she remembered which made all this worth the while.
And of the her persistence of attitude with of her debilitating need to host her own pity part of exacting failuretude. This cold war of the self-conflicted reminder and wake-up call. Yes, like the bungalow house she yearned to return to she would alwaysremain somewhat detached from life as it skitted by like a spider bug on the pond from her childhood. Lest anything be significant.
There were no purpose, no meaning, no dreaming, no feeling to life. She acquired by proxy a nihilist soul, a point of no return to sender. Numbness. Mindless numbness from years of neglect the one thing, the little light she carried deep within; hidden well beneath the stairs and under the bed.
A light, her light, never seemed to shine again after he left her. The broken egg of humpty dumpty still sitting on the half-shelf, the short stone fence which surrounded her cottage. And she was left in such sad such disarray like a lion had stalked her, and then let loose, pouncing on her heart, ripping upon her heart, letting it hang outside of the skin, bleeding forever.
Her scars never to heal, her body forever broken, her mind permanently in the "gone to lunch" position. She could only try to find and then gather the many missing pieces. Sibyl knew how foolish to believe she could ever return to the once fine form of a woman she only briefly now could glimpse in the rear view of the camera obscura.
For Sibyl Laura, her undoing was mainly self-inflicted. The boyfriends could no longer be blamed as she was an enabler. She enabled others to use her in this way, to sodden their filthy boots on her clean-as-Irish-linen soul, as crystal-clear as Waterford crystal vase, shining brightly in the morning sun upon her demask cloth underneath the solid maple Canadiana table she had made in Michigan from the Danish.
With certainy the role she donned today, like the clothes she wore each day were thread-worn, bare and naked.
Her heart worn on her sleeve this way made her a sad clown, a pierrette puppet. Sibly relations with others suffered because of the unresolved pain of a thousand nights of memory hounding her, pounding her into the floor, back again with each recalled portal when she forgot to close the door.
As with the many visits from people, she kept a closed door on her heart never to open again, not even a crack. For the crack would send her into crying jags that would last for days if not months and possibly years. She must learn to shield herself from herself from the wounds that would be a bleed-out, a bleeder, bleed to death, whiter pale of shade.
As a sarcastic twist of strangers, friends, would often visit on high notes, in all smiles and chuckles, the hidden Sibyl, crying on the inside could never give them as much as they would like of her true being. Locked away like Baby Jane, the role she personified also which fed labelled her; forever loser.
Laura embraced her self-defeating attitude of pending disaster. She wholly wallowed in her defeat, and languished in the richness of knowing exactly what she could control; her own wretched destiny of destruction.
Secretly she gloried in the daily results of her own doing. Encouraged by the past's defeating voice of reproach, Sibly learned her worth. At least she knew the outcome, this was a great comfort in an odd way. As martrys often flagalate themselves and relish in the mysery of a thousand slings and arrows; she was defeated a thus a commendable failure.
Now always a failure at life, she endorsed those voices of damnation, heard when the bandage was lifted when the veil was removed from her eyes.
Certainly her mind could fool herself, and this is why often at relationships, at love she could not win. The game was on, her cards always coming up short. This poor woman only ever allowed herself the best possible outcome; soul-wrenching denial of love, ultimate defeat in life.
Since love of the romantic kind no longer existed in her life, in her mind anyway, she was free to pursue other things, like firefighters calendar collections.
For Sibly, just those distant reminders fading now and yet still at her age, heart-felt pangs which now turned into angina. Of those many bitter memories only one held the most sway, the most power over her existence. Sibyl could not shake the first dumping ground her heart was expected to evacuate, to evolve into a new shape, a new heart? How could she? She only had one heart, and that was beyond repair, unless, someone could explain to her why she was dumped in the way she was dumped, the logic defying reason, defying human dignity of the person she use to be.
And often these ancient thoughts came flooding her mind with such life-stopping emotion that when and if life would kick in she would be reminded of the past and her soul being again kicked in the gut.
The mother of three had felt all the burdens of life on her shoulders, along with the many chips and resultant add-ons that made the impossible possible but very difficult to remove. Once removed there was always the problem of discarding the left-over baggage, not so easy. "These chinks in my soul's armour are definitely put there by life's gleaning process." A metalurgical lecture; Sibyl's daily diatribe and litany of profanity would soon follow. NOt sure if she were Charlie Manson psychotic or Rob Schneider funny with a mild case of Tourette's. Nonetheless Sibyl had the feeling that she were rotten like wrought iron rotting slowly turning to ashes in the furnace of perdition. Made and tested by the fires; The Abendago Fiery Furnace Company from Jackson, MS from the Old Testament. One must egress past the long ago ages; way past expiry date for high efficiency furnaces, past all that is past. "The past shall be washed away" or "all is past" or "all is water under the bridge". Why must the past, if it is past, come back to haunt Sibyl? What hold has the past if one can not shake the try and get the snake to awaken and slither off to parts where we are not any longer under the snake's thumb. Do snakes have thumbs? No, yet snakes hold us down, keep us prisoner for far too long, past any reasonible expiry date.
And it is in passing that we pass the buck to the next sucker born every minute. P.T. Barnum certainly had this correct, albeit another heartless and cruel joke to add to the collection. "Half-full, half-empty? Half-full, half-empty? What is it, come on?" Sibyl sounded indigent.
Sibyl had sculpted rather crudely her own initial test by fire; her once bronze goddess appearance now unkempt was still iconically mimeographed in her indelible memory banks.
The metal did not test her soul as much as whe would like, unable to penetrate that sterling vessel of the unatainable and always well-kept chastity. The one thing that would remain vestile in the vestibule, never to be touched, as if the room were sealed, locked away in the credenza, the crypt-keeper's hidden key, or Winchester's Stairway To Heaven by Led Zepplin. Like John Bellone's staff crying; "No more Stairway To Heaven".
For Sibyl the erosion process was subtle and complete. The awareness of defeat by age was analogous to the heart-wrenching eroding process. Like a steady drip-drip of an endless leak of a aging fawcet from 1940 Sibyl was in obvious need of repair. Her pipes were rusty, her water tasted bitter and stung the tongue like poison. As she watched herself erode in this way she would hope nd pray that the limestone shelves which surrounded her environs would be the healing balm. Yet underneath the mantle of layered rock, akindling fire, a volcano of molten lava ready to fireball into plasmatic licks of passion, ready to blow her world assunder and into kingdom come. Halleluia! Sibly would have liked her one and only king of her youth at her side. This was impossible now so a substitute must be found.
Of course at her side the affiable and eternal Jesus. He would certainly be the only one to take on such an esteemed role now. The groom of Sibyl. If the nunnery could not come to Sibly than Sibyl would go to the nunnery of her mind. Like old country folk who don black attire for eternity when husband's expiry date is over-due, than certainly Sibyl could outpreform the devotion of keeping a lid tightly on her emotional heart.
No man could possibly come close or dare to tread where no man would go again. And to her expectations of perfection; impossible. No one could, in all human possibility take upon that role, that mantle of sad fate. Sibyl was convinced all men were dogs. There would not be any further takers. Sibyl was destined to remain manless for the rest of her life.
Without a firm foundation, without building upon the rock there was nothing to build upon, no mantle, no castle, no king, no knight in shining armour to love her forever. Nothing standing in the wings wait to rescue her and give her a dozen roses or a box of chocolates to placate her.
There was no magic carpet ride, no smooth-flow follow through for the declined at point of sale woman. For Sybil it was all over, all down the rocky hill and dale, a crash course on crashing into the rocks of all ages on the way out of here. "And don't forget to close the door" This chapter has ended" Sibyl laughingly gyled herself childishly.
Now suddenly she gave way, to the erosion process, watching the crumbling effect on her life. It was not a pleasant at all to experience the slow-motion viewing, like watching an accident in progress. This personal and painful decay of the aging process no one discussed. After all youth being idolatorized, age meant something to ignore, it could not possibly bring to the table anything positive, unless one had a craving for all things aged like aged cheese, wine and what ever else ages well. Sibly certainly was not aging as gracefully as the cheese in her fridge.
Aging to Sibyl was synonymous with death, only aging took longer and was yet another torture test for her determined to be a saint not a sinner and if possible a martyr if the God Lord commands. This suited Sibyl and sat well with her primed in religion mind, open to the possibilties that the impossible was in fact possible and faith being unseen could be felt, much more than romantic love could be sustained.
What life had been to the dear woman was nothing short of unkind. A cruel joke of a life, always showing the worst possible case scenario, raw edged, wounded knee at Little Big Horn red.
Of course she could only compare not contrast herself with the many fine talents of her perfect sisters. This caused her to become "vain and bitter" from seething jealously. Like the Desirada poem, Sibyl could philosphize on her condition and her unfair life. The universe was quoting a verse she had never heard in completeness. Desirada told her life is "as perrenial as the grass" and "everywhere life is full of heroism".
She could not recall the poet of the one poem she clung to against the mast which she was strapped. The one poem she wanted to quote "if you love something, set it free, if it is to be, it will come back to you". Like Jonathan Livingstone Seagull waiting in the wings, skybound, love never returned to her one day. It never came back like the cat that always did come back to eat and take and use her. And like her errant Superball from childhood, the projectile kept going and going, leaving her earthen-bound and much alone. Sibyl was always waiting in the desert of never.
Ultimately, Sibyl felt she was wholly defeated by life. Yet the very thing that held all this conglomerate mess of a life together was gone. Her man, her mantra, the interwoven fabric of two lives joined as one flesh had disintegrated into thin air.
Gone the way of the crazy fox, or the do-do bird, the crazy glue she had cemented her life upon was becoming unglued, and created Sibyl to be much unsettled. Even when she tried to make a go of things, things would invariably unravel, left gapping and raw, things soon festered and got out of control once more.
Her life had been a wild ride until then; indeed Sibyl had certainly come undone so long ago, so many eons past. Her ancient history; irrelevant. "No mind" thought Sibly her answer to her gnawing angst of repressed and unresolved unrequitted love, noisy at times, like a rumbling stomach crying for the next meal or a volcano hungry for release from it's molten prison.
Nothing but the curse of the cold grave awaited Sibyl's understanding of existence. Her flesh was rot, so why keep up appearances? She did not want a man, did not really need friends, although she had many and they were always trying to help her, failing miserably in the process.
Sibyl for your salvation you "need a man". Sibyl laughed. "The only time I need a man is when I think I am not better than they are. Women are always taught that men are better than they are. It is ingrained in the "weaker sex". Women libbers even try to look like men, because secretly they worship them. Females are not as appreciated, and this is a fact. How am I to ever get around bold-faced facts?" Sibyl was wise beyond her years. She had the game pegged.
Therew would never be signs of redemption for Sibyl, no glorious resurrection from the cursed flesh, no promise of a brighter tomorrow in neverland paradise with her man. It was formally over for Sibyl; her hope and life extinguished by imaginary firefighters during the final throes of flesh battling death. She should only hope to find on her calendar, the one stud she could forever align with since she never be bed, or wed and made a bride. "A bride of Frankenstein? Forget it" Sibyl convinced herself.
Sibyl felt that by life's sheer weight she had conquered her heart by squashing it's hopes and dreams to bits and smithereens. She had smelt burnt toast before; a culling smell for Sibyl, a reminder of what's to come. As the smell wafted in the air, like toast she became; a burnt ember of never-ever dreams of stoked-on-kent firefighters quelling the latent fires of desire.
Beyond any formalized form of recognition Sibyl was a self- sacrifice to the gods of disaster, the hunky and hot, sweaty and strong men of her dreams. A form life she had in spades, and a form that had once taken form, and like a dream, dissolved like the sugar in water. The sickeningly sweet smells like yesterday's left overs these dreams never realized. Trying to keep water forever in the hand, the dream of forever held for more than a moment evaporates.
These dreams Like unformed fetuses, rejected by the maker, never the capstone the builder rejected to live again in some other form, a hopelessness of loss. Sibyl could only hope she would someday, somehow redeem her once recognizable stone-faced self.
So now she drank. Not only to stay alive another moment in time, a brief time left over from the beginning of someone else's universe. Her drink of choice? The waters of lourdes. Sibly was dying.
As she had once had a man, once understood the meaning of life and the promise of things to come.
"It must be somewhere; the word, Lord!". Sibyl pleaded with her maker, endless her searching. Valently she raised up her Bible to the heavens today for she searched for the very words of inspiration to evoke the change she wanted to become. The image of her conjuring she had sealed in her corpus collusum, hidden from the world of "you can't do that". She was certain this would lead her to renewal. To emerge in this new cystallis form, the human butterfly, her soul unbound by destiny's stripes.
What Sibyl did not know was that her rebirth would be painful. A pain much worse than childbirth, or from the curses placed upon the woman from time immemorial.
Sibyl's change would happen from the inside-out; not outside-in as she saw fit and which proof was awaiting on the many jars of renewal creme on her vanity in the bathroom.
Early mornings could be cruel. The mirror awaiting self-reprimands.
How cruel the evil mirror since awakening from those sweet dreams where all was alway sweetness and light. Those many pleasant dreams Siby would replay endlessly as if her subconscious mind was trying by the skin of its teeth to overcome rather than submit to the ravages of time and life.
Sibyl would often escape early to bed, not that she needed to go to bed at 8 pm, but she found relief in deep sleep, the REMs were the only kindness life's strangeness had offered her.
And far away from the weightiness of her existence she laid anchor. In her life, and by all accounting methods, Sybil always felt she fell far short of the glory of the almighty whatever. She downed herself as if drowning was the best form of suicide.
"Glory be! When I am going to have my life turn around, to see any sign of life. Everything around me is either sinking, decaying, stinking or rotting. Is there more death than life? Why must I only experience the doom and gloom god? Where is the humanity? Where are the fragrant flowers of promise; of eternal youth elixir hidden in some rich castle the key fob just beyond reach; yet so close? Can life never be nearer to the perfected state of homeostasis? Can my convection oven world ever match the score for "but a moment" in time? Where's my ability to make a spec of difference? Only with the spirit can I achieve, by myself never? Never? Must everything change for the worse? What possible glory can there be in the damned? So irrevocable the contract and so inevitable the dust upon my feet, my feats me nothing? Lord, help me!"
The prays Sibyl had been asking this morning were not new. Everyday seemed to remove the special light further and further away from her world, as she became in need of bottle-bottomed glasses so thick like her brain was becoming, crusted like barnacles, the scales not peeling back anytime soon. So with this new light from the new dawm morning in the far-off distant horizon. As those unseen ghosts of the past haunt her moment to moment, she wants to make contact. Yet the ghosts only haunt, never beckon her to imbide in forbidden hidden and hiding "come find me" love. There would never be a beacon of hope on that distant shore, that far horizon to call her back home to her man.
Nothing seemed to be quite right or real to Sibyl. As now could be made into nothing as easily as now could be made into something. So nothing seemed to ever match her brutal and exacting expectations of life. Sibyl did not mesh, cut from rejected clothe, scorned by the scars on her skin.
It was as if life were a grand joke, a cruel mockery, a teasing poke at her very entity, her own precious thoughts, her own special feelings.
Sibyl; always a passionately driven woman who own desires for a better world propelled her into an endless vacuum of the unaccomplished start-ups. Businesses that seemed a sure thing, but always became grounded with lack of cash-flow. Certainly it was not merely cash that stopped Sibyl in her tracks; it was her self-defeating attiude of which no veneer could cover the completely naked truth of her existence. Rubbing her nose in the mire, the huge mess before her, the stench which reminder her of an ugly old wicked wench, a witch she had become to be not by design but by unconscious choice.
And so with this sad tell-tale heart, Sibly would subconsciously emerge from her bed each morning, never stopping to pause and reflect, to reconnect to her work-a-day world from the layers of joys from unmitigated dreams where there were no thoughts only pure feelings of the "wonder of it all". And Sibly was starting to wander off at mid-day. Talking to her cats who were now outside and nowhere near. Her sons gone to war, where? It made no difference. She was slowly loosing her mind and grip on the reality of her dreams, the only hope she had left. The only arsonal she could call upon should she need to appease the gods of retribution once again.
She had not the time for self-reflection. Besides, what would be so wonderful to reflect upon? Years of doom, lack-luster doll-drums? It did not matter anymore. No matter how hard Sibyl had try to evoke the winds of positive change, nothing was working now in her mid-fifties, as if a buffer of defeat had been like a blown up balloon surrounding her, a defence-shield from some unknown enemy, stealthily lurking somewheres.
It was as if the start menu had everything unsidedown and inside out, dusty, distorted, contorted in odd ways, without design or destiny, without control or meaning. For Sibyl, her life was blowing in the wind, the bitter wind of regret.
Indeed, the start menu would not engage, not ignite the yesterday home-fires. The powers that be would not allow the turn over, the sweet sound of revying one's own engine, and hearing the low-basso hum of swiss clockwork. The finest sound of man's accomplishment; power beyond the mortal flesh, the androgonous androidal fixation of men. The idol of man's hands making metal flesh robots from churning mind matter. Which seems so ephemeral anyway as if all life existed for the sake of the engine. The dearsweet woman-girl being shelved for the focus was not on the emotions but on the world of the unemotional world of pure logic.
She would never be now; she would be forever in memory just a mocking-bird of what she had wanted to become; an existence now surely could only be one of self-doubt and recrimination. She had no fall back guy. She had gone all the way and back and could not find her ground, her place in the sun. She had lost the sun in fact.
As Sibyl had become more unsure of her footing, of her hold on "all the world and all that is in it" and now beyond the sound barrier to space, she felt lost in its vacancy. She was not alone. Women were dumped by the lock, stock and barrel, as they no longer could give the one gift they were so good at bestowing to men; the gift of feeling. All empathy aside, Sibyl still felt there was a huge gap between herself and her colleague women libbers who donned lumberjack shirts and army boots and took on the look of life rather than the look of love.
There was no longer the drive to try to change the bitter pill Sybil must unwillingly swallow each day to keep alive for another hour by her clock."Tick tock, damn!" Sibyl murmured under her breath. "I just hate the droning of the clock's infernal tick-tock, tick-tock!" Why remind me of what I never was, never could be, never can be now? Why mock me daily by the hour and minute, and now by the mocking atomic clock's presence, by the millisecond to the root of ten thousand? I'll always be this way, learn to live with it, change may come and go but I am as constant and as persistent as that 'tick tock mock' damn it!".
Sibly could feel the sweat pool under her arms and between her chest as another flush took command of her body. A host of ladies of perpetual reminders the remains of the day to come? Only in the rarest of incidences could Sibyl recall the old feelings she remembered which made all this worth the while.
And of the her persistence of attitude with of her debilitating need to host her own pity part of exacting failuretude. This cold war of the self-conflicted reminder and wake-up call. Yes, like the bungalow house she yearned to return to she would alwaysremain somewhat detached from life as it skitted by like a spider bug on the pond from her childhood. Lest anything be significant.
There were no purpose, no meaning, no dreaming, no feeling to life. She acquired by proxy a nihilist soul, a point of no return to sender. Numbness. Mindless numbness from years of neglect the one thing, the little light she carried deep within; hidden well beneath the stairs and under the bed.
A light, her light, never seemed to shine again after he left her. The broken egg of humpty dumpty still sitting on the half-shelf, the short stone fence which surrounded her cottage. And she was left in such sad such disarray like a lion had stalked her, and then let loose, pouncing on her heart, ripping upon her heart, letting it hang outside of the skin, bleeding forever.
Her scars never to heal, her body forever broken, her mind permanently in the "gone to lunch" position. She could only try to find and then gather the many missing pieces. Sibyl knew how foolish to believe she could ever return to the once fine form of a woman she only briefly now could glimpse in the rear view of the camera obscura.
For Sibyl Laura, her undoing was mainly self-inflicted. The boyfriends could no longer be blamed as she was an enabler. She enabled others to use her in this way, to sodden their filthy boots on her clean-as-Irish-linen soul, as crystal-clear as Waterford crystal vase, shining brightly in the morning sun upon her demask cloth underneath the solid maple Canadiana table she had made in Michigan from the Danish.
With certainy the role she donned today, like the clothes she wore each day were thread-worn, bare and naked.
Her heart worn on her sleeve this way made her a sad clown, a pierrette puppet. Sibly relations with others suffered because of the unresolved pain of a thousand nights of memory hounding her, pounding her into the floor, back again with each recalled portal when she forgot to close the door.
As with the many visits from people, she kept a closed door on her heart never to open again, not even a crack. For the crack would send her into crying jags that would last for days if not months and possibly years. She must learn to shield herself from herself from the wounds that would be a bleed-out, a bleeder, bleed to death, whiter pale of shade.
As a sarcastic twist of strangers, friends, would often visit on high notes, in all smiles and chuckles, the hidden Sibyl, crying on the inside could never give them as much as they would like of her true being. Locked away like Baby Jane, the role she personified also which fed labelled her; forever loser.
Laura embraced her self-defeating attitude of pending disaster. She wholly wallowed in her defeat, and languished in the richness of knowing exactly what she could control; her own wretched destiny of destruction.
Secretly she gloried in the daily results of her own doing. Encouraged by the past's defeating voice of reproach, Sibly learned her worth. At least she knew the outcome, this was a great comfort in an odd way. As martrys often flagalate themselves and relish in the mysery of a thousand slings and arrows; she was defeated a thus a commendable failure.
Now always a failure at life, she endorsed those voices of damnation, heard when the bandage was lifted when the veil was removed from her eyes.
Certainly her mind could fool herself, and this is why often at relationships, at love she could not win. The game was on, her cards always coming up short. This poor woman only ever allowed herself the best possible outcome; soul-wrenching denial of love, ultimate defeat in life.
Since love of the romantic kind no longer existed in her life, in her mind anyway, she was free to pursue other things, like firefighters calendar collections.
For Sibly, just those distant reminders fading now and yet still at her age, heart-felt pangs which now turned into angina. Of those many bitter memories only one held the most sway, the most power over her existence. Sibyl could not shake the first dumping ground her heart was expected to evacuate, to evolve into a new shape, a new heart? How could she? She only had one heart, and that was beyond repair, unless, someone could explain to her why she was dumped in the way she was dumped, the logic defying reason, defying human dignity of the person she use to be.
And often these ancient thoughts came flooding her mind with such life-stopping emotion that when and if life would kick in she would be reminded of the past and her soul being again kicked in the gut.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Magpie #1: NeoClassical Pewter Vase circa 1860
Magpie #1: NeoClassical Pewter Vase circa 1860
The exquisite Neoclassical pewter vase had sat for many years on the Italian marble mantle. Looking out upon the idyllic pastures the vase had not weathered, its patina a noble part of its integrity. It wore the weight of time like a lead sinker, chronicling the events in the Sandford family.
Emma could remember well what caused the ding on the reverse side of the vase. "I think it looks like the Holy Grail" Bobby spoke out loud. "There is no way there is any Holy about that cup, ummm, vase, Bobby, you know that". Bobby appeared stunned, his mouth hung open and his eyes widened.
"Don't you remember when you use to play football with the vase, when Moisey was out? Isn't that how it got the ding?"
Bobby shook his head "No, Emma, it was not at all how it happened, you do so like to embellish things". Bobby smirked at the wide-eyed sister Emma. "Not how I heard it, Sis". Emma implored "Well Bobby, what's your story about how Old Neo got his scar".
Bobby stretched back in the leather wing chair and put his athletic socks on the overstuffed davenport. "Emma, promise you won't tell anyone?" Emma squinted and gave an unbelieving smirk "Sure, go ahead, Bobby, tell your story, I'm sure I am going to believe it." Bobby shrugged his shoulders and appeared nonchalant. "Look sis, you weren't born yet, so you can hardly be expected to know this story." Emma frowned and shook her head. "Ok smartie-pants, what exactly have you been hiding from me all these years, spill the beans!"
Bobby sat at the edge of his chair. "Emma, I'm not sure you are ready for this." Emma walked casually over to the mantle and grabbed the metal vase. "It is hard to believe this old pewter bric-a-brac has an history. I thought it was a reproduction." Bobby stood up and pointed at the vase. "That vase should be respected Em, you shouldn't treat it like it's nothing, it could come back to haunt you."
Outside the manse the light from the setted sun cast an errie light in the keeping room. The light had cast a reddish glow on the pewter vessel. Emma held the cup above her head and stated ominously "All those who drink of this cup shall live forever!" Quickly she grabbed a bottle of brandy from the stocked liquor cabinet.
"Emma, you shouldn't..." Bobby tried to stop Emma from filling the vase with Napoleon brandy but it was too late. Emma had filled the pewter cup and had began to drink greedily of its wares and with total disregards to Bobby's pleas. "I am invinsible!" Emma's deep brown eyes started to catch the same reddish glow from the setting sun, as if she and the cup had caught the same infectious glow. Emma fell back on the silk-covered loveseat, laughing hysterically.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock
(play theme song from Pink Floyd's "Time")
the unwelcoming moonface on the wall
haunting septre of the swayed fray
Shadow stealers
Stop not the tick tock
of the heart beat
drop dead ungorgeous
gorged on my blood
sanquine time again
noting my beats
noting my benchmarks
noting my blaze of glory or gory or both
each moment duly recorded
tick tock
each minute so quickly diminished
gone in a vacuum of space
if only i could use that dread
tick tock
as energy for a pace maker
making me reel with each
second rocked
debriding me of flesh
ripping off yet more
pieces of heart
making me long for yesterday
when i was so much more
than the decay that soon sets in
with each
tick tock
As a whale who somehow knows
the beach is not always a place
to party late into the night
the beach beckons
as space mets with time
and soon runs out
we all run out sooner or later
although life force can make
chi life a bit longer if you know how
witch doctors know how to make it live
as life is an energy force
captured only for so long
as the beached whale on the beach
knew too well
tick tock
it became too loud
if the whale didnt get scared
he could have delayed the
inevitable
by fooling the body into believing
the
tick tock
wasnt really the melody
just the beat of a unknown player
trying to take centre stage
far too soon
Poor beached whale
struggles with the inevitable
no more
struggles with tick tock
and the clock that mocks our very lives
each day
going by
bye bye
one day
as the sounds from the beach
far into the night
caterwhales whoops and hollers
rather grimy sea urchins
come to take away
as suddenly as life
death swoops in
set in long ago
the body fights with all its got
to keep at bay
the dreaded decay
as rigamourtis sets in
and soon the body lightens
as to dust and lighter than air
the molecules that held
life
followed it out
but flesh goes nowhere
and soul goes before
not waiting for the flesh to catch up
the soul flies into unity once more
being everywhere at once
no separation of space and time
two parts making whole
the beginning from the end
and the being of one
tick tock
not heard
now
jj 06 02 10
the unwelcoming moonface on the wall
haunting septre of the swayed fray
Shadow stealers
Stop not the tick tock
of the heart beat
drop dead ungorgeous
gorged on my blood
sanquine time again
noting my beats
noting my benchmarks
noting my blaze of glory or gory or both
each moment duly recorded
tick tock
each minute so quickly diminished
gone in a vacuum of space
if only i could use that dread
tick tock
as energy for a pace maker
making me reel with each
second rocked
debriding me of flesh
ripping off yet more
pieces of heart
making me long for yesterday
when i was so much more
than the decay that soon sets in
with each
tick tock
As a whale who somehow knows
the beach is not always a place
to party late into the night
the beach beckons
as space mets with time
and soon runs out
we all run out sooner or later
although life force can make
chi life a bit longer if you know how
witch doctors know how to make it live
as life is an energy force
captured only for so long
as the beached whale on the beach
knew too well
tick tock
it became too loud
if the whale didnt get scared
he could have delayed the
inevitable
by fooling the body into believing
the
tick tock
wasnt really the melody
just the beat of a unknown player
trying to take centre stage
far too soon
Poor beached whale
struggles with the inevitable
no more
struggles with tick tock
and the clock that mocks our very lives
each day
going by
bye bye
one day
as the sounds from the beach
far into the night
caterwhales whoops and hollers
rather grimy sea urchins
come to take away
as suddenly as life
death swoops in
set in long ago
the body fights with all its got
to keep at bay
the dreaded decay
as rigamourtis sets in
and soon the body lightens
as to dust and lighter than air
the molecules that held
life
followed it out
but flesh goes nowhere
and soul goes before
not waiting for the flesh to catch up
the soul flies into unity once more
being everywhere at once
no separation of space and time
two parts making whole
the beginning from the end
and the being of one
tick tock
not heard
now
jj 06 02 10
Minute by Minute
Sitting here on a swivel chair
that can go anywhere
as I play hulahula and get
cinched
it's a cinch
to get a tiny waist
why lament of the wallowness
of nonbeing
when I am being right here and now
as i write the thing that sits on the top
of my head
streams of consciousness come back to me
searching endlessly for reason and
meaning
in the absurd
why I am not sure
not at all sure
sure i am here and now
as i hear the click clack
of the entensor digits
which frame my brain
hopes to find
a substitute in the gloat
as person who likes
goat soap
not that I sell it though I should
seeing as I am promoting something
I'll never get back in dividends
not even bookends
i thought i was
I think I am
your friend
but you never know
you never ask
those questions lacked
this lack of interest
is more than I can handle
accept an exception
handled exception
for what?
who am I; whom am I
me who points at me whom say
these things which
want to point at reality
at this moment in time
this click clack of need
to find
to make
to get
some sense in all this ridiculousness
Where would I be if I werent here
gloating the goat?
bleating the sheep
honking the goose?
I'd be living large
making more space
giving back in spades
all this rot
Sensual pleasures I know not
as I put behind me
all those things of youth
all those things of fantasies
all those things that wrought
ought not naughty
to make way for superfantastic pleasures
of the mind-flesh
duramater isnt flesh?
it is duramater doo-doo bird
the sexist organ in the body
cocobanana
see what I mean
you were thinking of a banana
again
hungry for the body's need
to make the mind eternal yet
flesh-bound to decaying
principles of Victoria?
That's were he wants to go
to an island again
where no man is suppose to be
an island
yet his fantasy
makes all perfect there
as waves lap
and breezes coax
all energies renewed
reborn in this way
you live for ever
if only for one more day
the island is worth
the experience
which may
imprint on the eternal
if memory banks
can handle soul decay
puritan preachy
life is a peach
with more instore features
hopefully
jj 06 02 10
that can go anywhere
as I play hulahula and get
cinched
it's a cinch
to get a tiny waist
why lament of the wallowness
of nonbeing
when I am being right here and now
as i write the thing that sits on the top
of my head
streams of consciousness come back to me
searching endlessly for reason and
meaning
in the absurd
why I am not sure
not at all sure
sure i am here and now
as i hear the click clack
of the entensor digits
which frame my brain
hopes to find
a substitute in the gloat
as person who likes
goat soap
not that I sell it though I should
seeing as I am promoting something
I'll never get back in dividends
not even bookends
i thought i was
I think I am
your friend
but you never know
you never ask
those questions lacked
this lack of interest
is more than I can handle
accept an exception
handled exception
for what?
who am I; whom am I
me who points at me whom say
these things which
want to point at reality
at this moment in time
this click clack of need
to find
to make
to get
some sense in all this ridiculousness
Where would I be if I werent here
gloating the goat?
bleating the sheep
honking the goose?
I'd be living large
making more space
giving back in spades
all this rot
Sensual pleasures I know not
as I put behind me
all those things of youth
all those things of fantasies
all those things that wrought
ought not naughty
to make way for superfantastic pleasures
of the mind-flesh
duramater isnt flesh?
it is duramater doo-doo bird
the sexist organ in the body
cocobanana
see what I mean
you were thinking of a banana
again
hungry for the body's need
to make the mind eternal yet
flesh-bound to decaying
principles of Victoria?
That's were he wants to go
to an island again
where no man is suppose to be
an island
yet his fantasy
makes all perfect there
as waves lap
and breezes coax
all energies renewed
reborn in this way
you live for ever
if only for one more day
the island is worth
the experience
which may
imprint on the eternal
if memory banks
can handle soul decay
puritan preachy
life is a peach
with more instore features
hopefully
jj 06 02 10
Image Molds Men
His ceramic body stiffened yet delicate
his features aquiline
his heartfelt sensitive nature
attracted hordes
as kept behind hutch doors
locked safely away
from the needy hoar frost
This inconvenience his only fault
durable strength of resolve
a hard pill to swallow
outstanding in the outback
wanting me more than anyone
paying that price
sold
lots of one
no longer a feast for all
gone like no more
sharing was crossed
lost in his endless eyes
a sad goodbye
never ever ever
gone like time
nevermore neverwas
never could be
an endless possibility
dreams tell of other things
possibilities
awaken the dreamer
to the dream lover
kept in a cubby
holed up in the pantry
hutch my butch
always the way
he's been
never changing
ever
stillife in buffeted orbit
shelved for all time
immobilized fear of missing
something dear
or so it could seem
until one realizes
everything changes
everything moves
all the time
all the same
jj 06 02 10
his features aquiline
his heartfelt sensitive nature
attracted hordes
as kept behind hutch doors
locked safely away
from the needy hoar frost
This inconvenience his only fault
durable strength of resolve
a hard pill to swallow
outstanding in the outback
wanting me more than anyone
paying that price
sold
lots of one
no longer a feast for all
gone like no more
sharing was crossed
lost in his endless eyes
a sad goodbye
never ever ever
gone like time
nevermore neverwas
never could be
an endless possibility
dreams tell of other things
possibilities
awaken the dreamer
to the dream lover
kept in a cubby
holed up in the pantry
hutch my butch
always the way
he's been
never changing
ever
stillife in buffeted orbit
shelved for all time
immobilized fear of missing
something dear
or so it could seem
until one realizes
everything changes
everything moves
all the time
all the same
jj 06 02 10
Turn on the Love Lights
Shallow-hearted Lake of desert
Empty-Shelled cup of endlessness
Bountiless Sea
Never giving up
Formless pearls
Vacant Stairs leading nowhere
Vacant Stares reflecting more space
Mirrors return same
locked in droll from the dolldrums
Deep-set eyes reflect no spark of life
Life became lifelessness
learned helplessness
remote controlled nonpurposefullness
useless as used up
Lifelessness becomes Lifefullness
Life lifts up the light of lightfullness of being
Today seemingly riding
that endlessness of wave
on the dead end of the last extinguished spark
returns returned
negative Gamma Rays from the positive exchangability
alternating time and space in an instant adds up
life keeps flickering
on the end of a flame
dancing protoplasma
right on the edge of eternity life holds on
nothing wholly exhausted
neurons and protons
decide when it is right
to switch the light on or off
again and again
the strobe effect
making me slow down so much more
as the light switching on and off
goes faster
how is this so
this exchange of back and forth
here and there
and nowhere
nowhere is only a figment
a fragment
of something which
some process that
can switch all to opposing forces
by the magnetic interchangeability
of great switcheroo
turn off the lights
turn on the love lights
jj 06 02 10
Empty-Shelled cup of endlessness
Bountiless Sea
Never giving up
Formless pearls
Vacant Stairs leading nowhere
Vacant Stares reflecting more space
Mirrors return same
locked in droll from the dolldrums
Deep-set eyes reflect no spark of life
Life became lifelessness
learned helplessness
remote controlled nonpurposefullness
useless as used up
Lifelessness becomes Lifefullness
Life lifts up the light of lightfullness of being
Today seemingly riding
that endlessness of wave
on the dead end of the last extinguished spark
returns returned
negative Gamma Rays from the positive exchangability
alternating time and space in an instant adds up
life keeps flickering
on the end of a flame
dancing protoplasma
right on the edge of eternity life holds on
nothing wholly exhausted
neurons and protons
decide when it is right
to switch the light on or off
again and again
the strobe effect
making me slow down so much more
as the light switching on and off
goes faster
how is this so
this exchange of back and forth
here and there
and nowhere
nowhere is only a figment
a fragment
of something which
some process that
can switch all to opposing forces
by the magnetic interchangeability
of great switcheroo
turn off the lights
turn on the love lights
jj 06 02 10
Friday, February 5, 2010
E-conomy E-tested and E-true
Exactly expecting everything effervescent
enough energy extracts eruditeness
encrusted e-trophy with e-jewels
e-copy?
enough egad
epros emessed epplelets
enjoi
entre nous
entrance yous
e-gas
exact e-change
exchanging e-vows
e-prenup
e-hehe
e-screwed
energy e-task e-masters
e-renewable
enemy enema
ennui
e-bugged
essence
e-sense
extreme
e-team
e-non
enoch
e-nachos
e-mmmmm
e-test
exhausting
e-trip
everywhere ewe e-wanta e-be
enough energy extracts eruditeness
encrusted e-trophy with e-jewels
e-copy?
enough egad
epros emessed epplelets
enjoi
entre nous
entrance yous
e-gas
exact e-change
exchanging e-vows
e-prenup
e-hehe
e-screwed
energy e-task e-masters
e-renewable
enemy enema
ennui
e-bugged
essence
e-sense
extreme
e-team
e-non
enoch
e-nachos
e-mmmmm
e-test
exhausting
e-trip
everywhere ewe e-wanta e-be
Thursday, February 4, 2010
One In the Outfield: Ode to JD Salinger
True to the heart
the silent beat
that kept us apart
for years
of believing
we can't be dead
to the true heart
to the true part
to the true art
the beating drums meaning
the way we feel when we do
the emotional reasoning
behind the musical screen
the sonic vibe
the sound of love
the cry of life?
the neglected part of heart
the emptiness within
held captive in dry vessels
on desert lands deserted
dust would be what we were
to become
as shells
whats inside
means more than the outfield places
removed places
as the insides catches
the Catcher in the Rye
Drink now for tomorrow we die
Empty promises that life continues
in some form or other
leads some to believe
it will all come out in the wash
as awash as the shores remove all traces
we've ever been here before
when we are put there
finally put away
all outcast
cast aways from life
never meeting that far shore
as our last breath struggles
to live one more day
life is brief
our souls
last longer
as all struggle to find that place in time
where all meeting rooms converge
The University's Open Gate
Opening the doors
to meaningfulness and all purposefulness
from all purposefulness, meaningfulness
we have not claimed the right
to suggest
we have not a clue
as to why we are here
in the first place
Suddenly, sullenly and sadly said
As hollowmen are mere shadows
dried up bits of fragments without
wholeness to find
of what was once complete
a continuous line of fine
the lodestone of where
the world was to go
and would be known
for ever and some time
Fearful of the facts of our incompleteness
we tried physically covet things
from the universe at large
thought to be secure
in the believe
we can be
let live
let go
free
leaving behind the only
bit of comfort ever known
the truth of the matter
is found in the heart
the felt liner
of the human soul
as the neglected heart
yearns to return
to a time when love
could fill the vacant land
even when cultivated
we are far from where
all comes togehter so nicely
as decay creeps up
under the surface
the face fractures
knowing all is illusion
like a mirror
reflecting our image
a image which we project
from our mind?
from our body
from our soul
as vessels
we keep in sotroe
the fine wine of time
which gave us the code
to how to make last
til we are old
and can let go
as we succumb to the desire of the universe
whick kills us
or makes us
something more
stares from empty shores
moved stores
stairways that lead nowhere
that is where we are
basically
without heart
we come apart
not fufilling destiny
not fufilling our role
in all that is
in all that is to become
for us more than what could
ever know
project heart love today
get back
that feeling tomorrow
now love
it is ok
to feel feelings
to be feelings
to know feelings
are why we are here
as we discern
and listen
and call
the renewed spirit that enters
and keeps us knowledgeable about
what is important and what is not
As the heart kept us real
down to earth
and humble
for dust is what we are
and to dust we shall return
no more
no less
just the heart which is soul now
becomes one with the spirit later
so keep in mind, the heart
that leads to the open sky's destiny
the freedom to be
truly be
who you are
Heart of Love
Comes from above
another plane I think
it can and has kept us on track
the lodestone heart
can weigh us down or
lighten us up
free to float
on the ride of a lifetime
forever is like that
never gives up
The Heart of Love
that crystalline knowledge
the Crysallis Butterfly emerges
as spirit builds the soul
invisible but felt
of the spirit bound
knows no bounds
on the return
to become one
the heart a reflection
a mirror'd pool
all the universe's desires
pulling
pushing
guiding us towards endearment
committed strongly
to the source
love is the only thing that lasts
All of us together
Automatic alighnment
one day
group unity hug
in the otherworldly world of
pure heart
taking us to where
where we could have been
now a real possiblility
the positivity of the true heart
never again
would life
negate
neglect
the most important thing
why we life
it is love
love of life
LOFE
is why we live
now is this not important enough?
The Spirit's end result
Raison d'etre
a reason to be
knowing the beginning
from the end
as it comes around again
Could these shallow graven sockets
beckon us to be?
places of never
crying why did you not place face
is something other than this fate
give us leave of our senses
for a moment
when denial of heart
makes victim
of us all
when the wrongly chosen
knew the chosen had deciphered
knowledge without heart
knowledge with a detached sensor mode
knowledge of itself is death not life
of all that was known
now all lost?
what makes more sense
the spirit of heart and life
or the world thof decay
missing the soul train
that said to late; get in!
could the perfect
dna clone
remove that source
as the tree of knowledge
kept chaste
the chastetree
rivetted with holes now
hardly the once wholeness
of goodness
which was once the heart
before the fall
the first tree
toppled
mans desires to be more than what is here
already
as the waiting game made us impatient
as knowledge sitting there
the blueprint of life
seemed a ruddy trophy
of life's perceived mistakes
being the dna could be booted
made to be more whole
when the tweek came to shove
we lucked out on the heart
as the door slammed behind
now scores of heartlessness
pound the pavement with mortals
these supermen really are doomed
to repeat
life without love
never meant to be
miscreants
ne'er do goods
ne'er be-ers
to raise a glass to all good
more than what we were
when are hearts died
so to did you become
a passing shadow on the wall
lifeless as to what could have
become
jj 04 02 10
the silent beat
that kept us apart
for years
of believing
we can't be dead
to the true heart
to the true part
to the true art
the beating drums meaning
the way we feel when we do
the emotional reasoning
behind the musical screen
the sonic vibe
the sound of love
the cry of life?
the neglected part of heart
the emptiness within
held captive in dry vessels
on desert lands deserted
dust would be what we were
to become
as shells
whats inside
means more than the outfield places
removed places
as the insides catches
the Catcher in the Rye
Drink now for tomorrow we die
Empty promises that life continues
in some form or other
leads some to believe
it will all come out in the wash
as awash as the shores remove all traces
we've ever been here before
when we are put there
finally put away
all outcast
cast aways from life
never meeting that far shore
as our last breath struggles
to live one more day
life is brief
our souls
last longer
as all struggle to find that place in time
where all meeting rooms converge
The University's Open Gate
Opening the doors
to meaningfulness and all purposefulness
from all purposefulness, meaningfulness
we have not claimed the right
to suggest
we have not a clue
as to why we are here
in the first place
Suddenly, sullenly and sadly said
As hollowmen are mere shadows
dried up bits of fragments without
wholeness to find
of what was once complete
a continuous line of fine
the lodestone of where
the world was to go
and would be known
for ever and some time
Fearful of the facts of our incompleteness
we tried physically covet things
from the universe at large
thought to be secure
in the believe
we can be
let live
let go
free
leaving behind the only
bit of comfort ever known
the truth of the matter
is found in the heart
the felt liner
of the human soul
as the neglected heart
yearns to return
to a time when love
could fill the vacant land
even when cultivated
we are far from where
all comes togehter so nicely
as decay creeps up
under the surface
the face fractures
knowing all is illusion
like a mirror
reflecting our image
a image which we project
from our mind?
from our body
from our soul
as vessels
we keep in sotroe
the fine wine of time
which gave us the code
to how to make last
til we are old
and can let go
as we succumb to the desire of the universe
whick kills us
or makes us
something more
stares from empty shores
moved stores
stairways that lead nowhere
that is where we are
basically
without heart
we come apart
not fufilling destiny
not fufilling our role
in all that is
in all that is to become
for us more than what could
ever know
project heart love today
get back
that feeling tomorrow
now love
it is ok
to feel feelings
to be feelings
to know feelings
are why we are here
as we discern
and listen
and call
the renewed spirit that enters
and keeps us knowledgeable about
what is important and what is not
As the heart kept us real
down to earth
and humble
for dust is what we are
and to dust we shall return
no more
no less
just the heart which is soul now
becomes one with the spirit later
so keep in mind, the heart
that leads to the open sky's destiny
the freedom to be
truly be
who you are
Heart of Love
Comes from above
another plane I think
it can and has kept us on track
the lodestone heart
can weigh us down or
lighten us up
free to float
on the ride of a lifetime
forever is like that
never gives up
The Heart of Love
that crystalline knowledge
the Crysallis Butterfly emerges
as spirit builds the soul
invisible but felt
of the spirit bound
knows no bounds
on the return
to become one
the heart a reflection
a mirror'd pool
all the universe's desires
pulling
pushing
guiding us towards endearment
committed strongly
to the source
love is the only thing that lasts
All of us together
Automatic alighnment
one day
group unity hug
in the otherworldly world of
pure heart
taking us to where
where we could have been
now a real possiblility
the positivity of the true heart
never again
would life
negate
neglect
the most important thing
why we life
it is love
love of life
LOFE
is why we live
now is this not important enough?
The Spirit's end result
Raison d'etre
a reason to be
knowing the beginning
from the end
as it comes around again
Could these shallow graven sockets
beckon us to be?
places of never
crying why did you not place face
is something other than this fate
give us leave of our senses
for a moment
when denial of heart
makes victim
of us all
when the wrongly chosen
knew the chosen had deciphered
knowledge without heart
knowledge with a detached sensor mode
knowledge of itself is death not life
of all that was known
now all lost?
what makes more sense
the spirit of heart and life
or the world thof decay
missing the soul train
that said to late; get in!
could the perfect
dna clone
remove that source
as the tree of knowledge
kept chaste
the chastetree
rivetted with holes now
hardly the once wholeness
of goodness
which was once the heart
before the fall
the first tree
toppled
mans desires to be more than what is here
already
as the waiting game made us impatient
as knowledge sitting there
the blueprint of life
seemed a ruddy trophy
of life's perceived mistakes
being the dna could be booted
made to be more whole
when the tweek came to shove
we lucked out on the heart
as the door slammed behind
now scores of heartlessness
pound the pavement with mortals
these supermen really are doomed
to repeat
life without love
never meant to be
miscreants
ne'er do goods
ne'er be-ers
to raise a glass to all good
more than what we were
when are hearts died
so to did you become
a passing shadow on the wall
lifeless as to what could have
become
jj 04 02 10
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Distant Like In The Back Of The Brainbox
the distance which separates us
is like the difference between
white of egg
and egg yolk
one egg two parts
scramble them
somewhat scrambled
wholly scrambled
in part or whole
but consistently
distant
nonetheless
like white cells and red cells
make serum when
spun awhile
or scrambled in somesort
of machine makes
orderly mess
of once was but finds
a new form
but not workable anymore
in the previous model
back to when
i did not want
or wont
or won't
or can't
or Ken
or someother
notme
cant be
what I said
did I do that?
when my constituent part
returned to same
it did take time to
reconstitute like oj
never the smae as the original
how could it be
these and those set on spin
often dont bring the same thing
to the lazy susan
these and those
were scrambled and spun
always more over done
wanting to
never can do
when wishes came true
negative equity
how to put back
the broken vase
once whole
now left in a thousand pieces
of broken heart
nonetheless
achieving a homeostasis unit of wholeness
sameness
dolldrums sound the knell
we werent made to be static
not even for a moment
certainly not years
of never ever happening
that meant that who could never give
nor gave fully that part of which
that whom and whom when removed from the first part
became the second part of the first
and lasted far longer with all that
fragmentation
that figment of imagination
that piece of cut glass
which saved me
from giving too much
away
for free
when really
one needs to eat
don't we?
time to
get away from thoughts of being one
over spun
over spin
over scrambled mass of a mess
who wants to only
break the mold like a smashed piece of
pottery
earthenware
left in partial pieces on the back shelf
plated and acid-etched
where like Prince's old girlfriend
Purple rained on my parade that day
when i gave it away so freely
to the Prince of Pretend
Prince Friday by the Bay
Prince One Day
or any other lady in waiting
returns to the back of the line
waiting by Ancient Oaks
waiting for the tree feller
to cut me down to the wick
the wicked wick
but wicked good
i was licked wicked good
but I got back up again
so I could wait patiently again
until someone should show up
in the shop that looks like a matchstick
make me a match
made before eharmony
or matchmaker arts were all that
so we think beyond the label
beyond the sterotype
beyond the flesh of fools
beyond life's mess
we take in stride all things
as women have done for millenia
and wait for an endless date
with prince charming
charmed I'm sure
not
not really
rarely
So in all this maybe I got caught
in a school for scandal
which portaited silhouettes
for the chopping block
all needs scapegoats
some sacrificial lamb
some servant to freely
give away
something which is not free
to others
who often get paid for the same
service-oriented position
where would we be without
public service
volunteers
and lovers of free
without the sleaze component
maybe mr gig
says play the game song
how it has rung before
without knowing
it didnt work the first time
and it never changes
insanely idiotic to repeat this pattern
when off the record
all is bs
so you accept thing you cannot change
because you do not make exceptions
your prejudiced ways
flew in the face of freedom
flew off the handle
flew far flung away
never landling
but free-floating
miles above my head
whats this mean?
as an outsider
how do you feel
about the human race
is it going to fast to catch up
with the hampster wheel of fortune
funny I thought I belonged to something
somewhat
someone
somehow
like spun and scrambled
it all comes out in the end
when you getting off the train?
have you made yourself whole
when you found that place
where you belong
happy with knowing
i meant nothing
happy with knowing
i did not know
happy with knowing
questions still linger
who's rules were you following
when you closed the latch on the gate
left me sitting on the ground
rocking in fetal form
trying to find
that stem cell
from long ago
to begin all over again
this time
it will all make sense
and no funny mind games
only true no bs
no hidden agenda
no motivating factors
no screw-u campaign
am I really an optimist
a dreamer
and a lud?
wasnt there a time when you questioned why
do i follow others dreams machine paths for me
when I could have had stark reality
kicking me in the rear posterior
smooth operator
like decay makes energy
I stored all this for so long
that maybe take the beginning from the end
and smash them together in the Haldron
all that decay could make hay some day
I am hoping for this too
I dont think yin and yang balance
when one carries all the poop
for others
and like the sin-eater
becomes
the master of foibles
and fretful masters
concerns like a spin or spun or scramble
get of the train
get out of the blender
get free from continual
never-ending
emotional attachments to things
when things keep spinning and churning
and changing and becoming
out front
store front
front and centre
reality lives
while all else held by hands
let go
fly away
swirling round
like a blue budgierigar
when the cage lid is left open
and the contained items
cannot be contained any longer
when things are released
set free
set on stun
set mode of life
can be known?
who's in control?
when all is in spin
spun
and scrambled?
hoping they have more of a hold
a grip
a containment system
to hold in
or let go
all those things
we hold so dear
even the fake tears
as you walked away
the heart should know
when the focus is not contained
when the vessel is left
empty
unfufilled prophesy
destiny altered
light not flowing
in the way it was meant to go
if natural laws
were allowed to be
synthesizing reality
altering reality
playing God
does not do a body or soul good
as the spirity can not flow
through the holes
when the atom is manipulated
to this desperate degre?
you follow the synthesizers
the gods of alter
the gods of never after
because our paths now are lost
where we were to go
when reality was left alone
jj 03 02 2010
is like the difference between
white of egg
and egg yolk
one egg two parts
scramble them
somewhat scrambled
wholly scrambled
in part or whole
but consistently
distant
nonetheless
like white cells and red cells
make serum when
spun awhile
or scrambled in somesort
of machine makes
orderly mess
of once was but finds
a new form
but not workable anymore
in the previous model
back to when
i did not want
or wont
or won't
or can't
or Ken
or someother
notme
cant be
what I said
did I do that?
when my constituent part
returned to same
it did take time to
reconstitute like oj
never the smae as the original
how could it be
these and those set on spin
often dont bring the same thing
to the lazy susan
these and those
were scrambled and spun
always more over done
wanting to
never can do
when wishes came true
negative equity
how to put back
the broken vase
once whole
now left in a thousand pieces
of broken heart
nonetheless
achieving a homeostasis unit of wholeness
sameness
dolldrums sound the knell
we werent made to be static
not even for a moment
certainly not years
of never ever happening
that meant that who could never give
nor gave fully that part of which
that whom and whom when removed from the first part
became the second part of the first
and lasted far longer with all that
fragmentation
that figment of imagination
that piece of cut glass
which saved me
from giving too much
away
for free
when really
one needs to eat
don't we?
time to
get away from thoughts of being one
over spun
over spin
over scrambled mass of a mess
who wants to only
break the mold like a smashed piece of
pottery
earthenware
left in partial pieces on the back shelf
plated and acid-etched
where like Prince's old girlfriend
Purple rained on my parade that day
when i gave it away so freely
to the Prince of Pretend
Prince Friday by the Bay
Prince One Day
or any other lady in waiting
returns to the back of the line
waiting by Ancient Oaks
waiting for the tree feller
to cut me down to the wick
the wicked wick
but wicked good
i was licked wicked good
but I got back up again
so I could wait patiently again
until someone should show up
in the shop that looks like a matchstick
make me a match
made before eharmony
or matchmaker arts were all that
so we think beyond the label
beyond the sterotype
beyond the flesh of fools
beyond life's mess
we take in stride all things
as women have done for millenia
and wait for an endless date
with prince charming
charmed I'm sure
not
not really
rarely
So in all this maybe I got caught
in a school for scandal
which portaited silhouettes
for the chopping block
all needs scapegoats
some sacrificial lamb
some servant to freely
give away
something which is not free
to others
who often get paid for the same
service-oriented position
where would we be without
public service
volunteers
and lovers of free
without the sleaze component
maybe mr gig
says play the game song
how it has rung before
without knowing
it didnt work the first time
and it never changes
insanely idiotic to repeat this pattern
when off the record
all is bs
so you accept thing you cannot change
because you do not make exceptions
your prejudiced ways
flew in the face of freedom
flew off the handle
flew far flung away
never landling
but free-floating
miles above my head
whats this mean?
as an outsider
how do you feel
about the human race
is it going to fast to catch up
with the hampster wheel of fortune
funny I thought I belonged to something
somewhat
someone
somehow
like spun and scrambled
it all comes out in the end
when you getting off the train?
have you made yourself whole
when you found that place
where you belong
happy with knowing
i meant nothing
happy with knowing
i did not know
happy with knowing
questions still linger
who's rules were you following
when you closed the latch on the gate
left me sitting on the ground
rocking in fetal form
trying to find
that stem cell
from long ago
to begin all over again
this time
it will all make sense
and no funny mind games
only true no bs
no hidden agenda
no motivating factors
no screw-u campaign
am I really an optimist
a dreamer
and a lud?
wasnt there a time when you questioned why
do i follow others dreams machine paths for me
when I could have had stark reality
kicking me in the rear posterior
smooth operator
like decay makes energy
I stored all this for so long
that maybe take the beginning from the end
and smash them together in the Haldron
all that decay could make hay some day
I am hoping for this too
I dont think yin and yang balance
when one carries all the poop
for others
and like the sin-eater
becomes
the master of foibles
and fretful masters
concerns like a spin or spun or scramble
get of the train
get out of the blender
get free from continual
never-ending
emotional attachments to things
when things keep spinning and churning
and changing and becoming
out front
store front
front and centre
reality lives
while all else held by hands
let go
fly away
swirling round
like a blue budgierigar
when the cage lid is left open
and the contained items
cannot be contained any longer
when things are released
set free
set on stun
set mode of life
can be known?
who's in control?
when all is in spin
spun
and scrambled?
hoping they have more of a hold
a grip
a containment system
to hold in
or let go
all those things
we hold so dear
even the fake tears
as you walked away
the heart should know
when the focus is not contained
when the vessel is left
empty
unfufilled prophesy
destiny altered
light not flowing
in the way it was meant to go
if natural laws
were allowed to be
synthesizing reality
altering reality
playing God
does not do a body or soul good
as the spirity can not flow
through the holes
when the atom is manipulated
to this desperate degre?
you follow the synthesizers
the gods of alter
the gods of never after
because our paths now are lost
where we were to go
when reality was left alone
jj 03 02 2010
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